


with the lone twisted wing we were given

by Knightblazer



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff, Introspection, Jaws of Hakkon, M/M, POV Experimental, Post-Game(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 04:42:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4334279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Knightblazer/pseuds/Knightblazer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <span class="small">
    <i>(I wasn’t Inquisitor by choice. Whatever my life was before…</i>
  </span>
</p><p> <span class="small"> <i>Take moments of happiness where you find them. The world will take the rest.)</i></span></p><p>The words haunt Dorian far longer than they should.</p><p>(Post game, Jaws of Hakkon spoilers)</p>
            </blockquote>





	with the lone twisted wing we were given

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short fic thing I churned out because Jaws of Hakkon gave me all the feels. Not sure why its only that, but there you go. Also for those interested this is how [my doof inquisitor looks like](http://hulkism.tumblr.com/post/123964537775/inquisitor-javas-trevelyan). He is the biggest doof tempest rogue who asks too many questions and does too many sidequests. 
> 
> Fic is totally unbeta'd with a quick look over for errors because its 2:30AM and I'm too braindead for more checking. Also totally unsure of the Dorian voice so if I get anything wrong pls forgive that as well as any actual DA lore I've screwed up on. :X And yes, all the headcanons for my doofqusitor ahoy.
> 
>  
> 
>   
> ~~yes I've fallen into Dragon Age hell, pls send help sob~~  
> 

A week has passed since their return to Skyhold, but yet the words still continue to haunt Dorian. 

In all honesty, he has tried not to let it get to him, but the echoes of what had been said that day still creeps around in the dark, in times where the bed is emptier than usual and there isn’t the warm, familiar press of a body next to him to calm his nerves.

_(I wasn’t Inquisitor by choice. Whatever my life was before…_

_Take moments of happiness where you find them. The world will take the rest.)_

All things considered, Dorian supposes it is a strange thing to hang upon, especially when everyone else is all too busy making a ruckus at the truth of Ameridan. Indeed, nobody would have thought that the previous Inquisitor would actually be an elf—and one who also happened to be a _mage_ , even. Historians all over Thedas were probably gibbering around and trying to make sense of it all after eight centuries of being told otherwise. As for the Imperium… well, they would probably laugh. Probably. If only because of how embarrassed Orlais is right now, to get their history so wrong. Beyond that, he doubted their feelings would change much. Not that _their_ feelings matter right now.

Dorian bites down a sigh even though he’s the only one in his room and stares up at the ceiling. It’s been a long enough time since what happened in the Frostback Basin but still the words continue to echo in his head. By the time he joined the Inquisition it had already been fairly established, even if the Chantry had still been against it then. But even then the Inquisitor was already a man who had grown into his role as one for the cause, though he was only really the Inquisitor much later. Still, while in Haven… the man he had seen then was already somebody else entirely. It was the man who would soon be _Inquisitor Trevelyan_ , not… whoever he had been before the Inquisition, before the mark, before the Conclave that would change everything.

It bothers him more than he admits. The Inquisitor had been with him when they met his father, supported him when he was down, was always patient and kind and understanding. The man who had only quirked a smile and went ‘ _Let’s be foolish_ ’ in response his own fears of being together, who always did his best to be confident but in the moments of quiet, let Dorian feel and hear the sounds of his scared, racing heart.

There is just so little he knows of the Inquisitor—the man who is also the love of his life. And it affects Dorian more than he tries to think about.

* * *

It’s easy enough to find Javas Trevelyan when one knows where to look. Just as he expected the Inquisitor is in the garden, sitting on a bench under the morning sun. It’s still early enough that the Chantry sisters aren’t out yet, which is perfectly fine with Dorian since he’s no lover of their constant prattering. At least Mother Giselle has stopped pestering him.

“Trying to soak in the morning dew before it’s gone?” he announces his presence with that question as he walks towards the other man. “It could do wonders for that scar of yours, or so I’ve heard.”

The expression on Javas’s face is fond as he glances over to him. “Do you mean the one on my face, or the one on my hand?” His left hand gestures up to the deep scar on the right side of his face as he says that, and when he looks at it Dorian finds himself hounded by his thoughts of last night. The scar, too, was another one of the many puzzle pieces of who Javas was before his life as the Inquisitor. He had never asked, and the man had never said anything. Dorian wonders if it’s because he doesn’t want to talk about it, or he simply was waiting for Dorian to ask. It’s a bit hard to bring it up if it really is the latter.

Dorian gives a shrug. “It could be either. Can’t hurt to try.”

“I suppose.” Javas looks back to the front once Dorian settles down beside him on the bench, falling silent once more. Dorian follows his gaze to the shelter in the garden, and remembers that was where that witch—Morrigan—had usually been around in her brief time at Skyhold.

“Did she tell you where she went?” he asks after a pause.

Javas shakes his head in response. “No. It didn’t feel right to ask, either.”

 _It didn’t feel right._ Those were probably the best words to define Javas Trevelyan. The Inquisitor practically wore his heart on his sleeve and had the biggest bleeding heart Dorian had seen in his entire life. No other person would go around and do things like putting letters in tree trunks and planting flowers on graves even while they were busy saving the world. Dorian had once asked him why he bothered to go through the trouble of doing all this needless tasks while fighting through armies of darkspawn and Red Templars, and the answer he got to that question is something that he remembers all too well. 

_(“If I don’t do it, then who will?”)_

Caring far too much—that was Javas’s biggest flaw. And one day that kindness could get him killed. Dorian knew that as a fact far too well. But yet at the same time that kindness was what drew him in in the first place. Back in Tevinter—and even out here, and _especially_ in Orlais—people were only kind because it benefitted them. But with Javas… his kindness never came with any strings. He was kind because he wanted to be. Because he could be, in his own words. Far too kind, and Dorian didn’t want him to lose that kindness. It made him feel a little terrible for thinking that, too.

“Dorian?” Javas’s voice pulls him out from his musings, and just as he suspected, there was a look of concern on his face. “Are you alright?”

“Perfectly fine. Just thinking about what I could do later.” He quirks a smile, doing his best to look as pleasant as possible. “Now that we’re no longer pressed with the possible ending of the world, it certainly gives us all more time to plan our daily activities.”

A small laugh. “I’m sure many others feel the same way,” Javas returns, and the concerned look is now one of amusement instead. It’s a much better look on him. Dorian wonders if he could chance a quick kiss right there and then.

Before he can try, though, some of the doors around the garden open, and Dorian can see the Chantry sisters beginning to come around and congregate in their usual areas. With Cassandra being named Divine more of them have been coming in, although Javas hasn’t really voiced out any of his own displeasure. Then again, Javas has proven himself to be remarkably tolerable in any matters pertaining to religion, despite the fact he wasn’t particularly religious himself. A part of him wonders about the lack of faith, and yet again, that is another piece of the puzzle.

Even with his tolerance the exasperation is visible on his face as Javas sees the Chantry sisters coming in. “I suppose this is where I should retreat to the war table,” he says, making a move to stand. “Cullen’s men should have returned last night, so I need to hear his report.”

Dorian does his best to keep off the hopeful look on his face. “I’ll see you later, then?” He’s not entirely sure if he succeeds. 

“Of course,” Javas replies, not even missing a beat, and before Dorian can do anything else he leans in and presses a light kiss to his forehead. That—that was entirely unexpected. 

The surprise must show on his face because Javas is smiling when he pulls away, and the fondness is in his voice once more. “You looked like you wanted that.”

Dorian takes a quick second to recover from his own surprise and lets out a huff. “You’re the one who refused to come to bed with me last night.” He shoots back, but they both know it’s because Javas had to stay up late to finish his report about Inquisitor Ameridan. A lot of things had happened, after all.

The expression on Javas’s face softens. “I’m sorry. I’ll make sure to have time tonight.” And, as always, it’s so easy to hear just how apologetic he is. It makes teasing him fun at times, but now Dorian feels a lurch inside of him at discovering again how vulnerable the Inquisitor can truly be.

“No need to do anything on my account.” He quickly waves it off, knowing better than to trouble Javas with anything. The man would make trouble for himself some way or anything, with his constant attempts to try and take on everything. Even with Corypheus dead and gone the man still runs himself ragged trying to help people—another thing Dorian loves and also hates him for. A man this good can never truly last for long. 

But— _kaffas_ —he wants that goodness to last forever. Thedas could use more people like him.

* * *

“After all this time, I’d figure you’d actually be heading back to Kirkwall by now.”

Varric glances up from his cards and raises an eyebrow at Dorian. “So eager to see me gone, Sparkler? I didn’t know you hated me that much.”

“It would be nice to finally be free of constantly seeing that mess you call chest hair.”

The dwarf lets out a dry snort. “And I’m pretty sure our dear Inquisitor is perfectly shaven.”

“Well, he is. Sometimes.”

“Only time I’ve seen him clean shaven was back at the Winter Palace, Sparkler,” Varric instantly replies. “And that was only after Josephine asked him to.”

Despite himself Dorian can’t help but let his mind drift to that night—Javas had been particularly dashing, Venatori agents and all that familiar politicking aside. “The clean shave always helps with charming the ladies, or so I’m told.”

“Charming _you_ , more like.” The tease was there. It was only all too obvious. Dorian pointedly ignores it and places a few more silvers on the table.

Varric, at least, nicely stops with the teasing for now and returns to Dorian’s original question. “There’s still a lot of cleanup work to do here. Doubly so, now with the half of Cloudcap Lake still frozen over from that damned dragon.” He sighs and takes a card from the pile. “Why does it always have to be frigging dragons.”

“At least we had prior experience.” Not that a dragon infected with red lyrium was in anyway easier than a dragon bonded to some Avvar god spirit thing, but a dragon was still a dragon for the most part. 

“You’d think after all the dragons we had to kill, they’d get the message.” Varric gestures to the crossbow lying at the corner of the table, dragon bone gleaming slightly from the equipment their resident arcanist had created for all of the inner circle. Even Solas had something, before he vanished to Maker knows where.

Dorian thinks of his own dragon bone staff and makes a shrug. “Perhaps they’ll consider it twice now.”

“They’d better.” Varric lowers his hand, a thoughtful expression on his face now. “Although it’s hard to believe how far we’ve come, especially considering how things were like back in Haven.”

“I was in Haven,” he says, just in case Varric forgot about that fact.

The dwarf snorts once more, sounding a bit too amused for Dorian’s own pleasure. “Yeah, for like, what? A _week_? And then Corypheus decided to show up and burn everything down.”

“Well, not _everything_ ,” Dorian points out, “Javas did bury most of the place himself.”

“…yeah, he did.” There’s a pause then, one that seems to feel too heavy. It takes a moment before Varric speaks again. “I never thought he had that kind of gut until that moment, honestly.”

The words have Dorian’s attention, even if he does loathe to admit it. “What was he like, before?” He knows that Varric has been around since this whole thing started—since the Inquisition was first declared. He was one of the last ones in the inner circle to join; Cole was officially the last after him.

“You mean, how he was like before you joined?” Varric says, and then lets out what seems to be a sound of amusement. “He was… well. Scared, I guess, for a lack of a better word.”

“Scared?” It… certainly wasn’t the word he expects. Naïve, perhaps, even troublemaking if he wants to go that far. But _scared_? 

Varric considers it for a bit himself. “I guess it’s more like… you could tell he didn’t know what to do. He wakes up to find some mark on his hand and the sky ripping itself open to rain demons—not to mention the death of the previous Divine on his head. It’s all a lot of take in.”

The previous Divine—oh. Yes. Dorian had quite forgotten about that part of things. Javas had initially been suspected of killing the Divine himself, wasn’t he? That certainly… had to be a big thing, even if Javas himself wasn’t Andrastian.

The dwarf continues to speak, and Dorian listens still, a part of him simply wanting to know more about the person who wasn’t yet Inquisitor Trevelyan. “Back then he mostly just had to listen to Ruffles and Nightingale and Seeker so it was easier for him, in a way. He just went around and did his thing—helping people. Then… I suppose you know better than I do what happened.” He gestured aimlessly towards Dorian at that, and it took him a moment to put two and two together.

Redcliffe. Alexius. Of course.

“He started to change, after that.” Varric muses quietly now, putting down his cards. “After that, and Haven, and when he became Inquisitor—well. We all know how it goes from there.” He glances at Dorian now, a knowing look on his face. “I suppose it helps that he found another reason to keep on going too.”

If Dorian feels himself _blushing_ like some young lovestruck girl, he is certainly not going to admit it. Instead he feigns a cough and places down his own cards as well. “I think I’m done with Wicked Grace for today. Feel free to keep my gold.”

Varric, at least, spares Dorian enough dignity to not point out how he looks right now. “He’s not a guy who would keep secrets from you, Sparkler. You should talk to him, if you want to know anything else.”

* * *

Considering how he had said _tonight_ earlier in the morning, Dorian finds himself caught by surprise when Javas suddenly appears in his usual spot in the library with a package in his hand.

“The meeting ended early,” he informs Dorian with a smile. “I figure we could have a meal together. Somewhere private.”

Dorian wouldn’t be Dorian if he didn’t take advantage of such a generous offer, and so allowed himself to follow the Inquisitor to his private chambers. The next thirty minutes that passed after they closed the door behind them was a flurry of hastily discarded clothing, many loving kisses and exquisite warmth and pleasure.

Once they were sated and well spent the two of them cleaned up a bit and started on the sandwiches Javas had brought with him—the items in the package earlier. The rather clumsy way of how the bread was cut told Dorian that it was Javas himself to had made them, and he couldn’t help but find it endearing in its own way.

“…and then after that, Leliana asked him, ‘Would you call this a _roaring success_?’” Javas finished the story with a laugh, eyes crinkling up in clear amusement. “Maker, you should have seen the look on Cullen’s face.” 

“I can imagine it quite clearly.” Although it would have been nice if he had been there himself to see it—although hearing this story is good enough. He could try and use it to his advantage the next time he played chess with the commander.

Javas stifles down his laugh after another few more seconds, sighing as he wipes off the tears from the corners of his eyes. “I should just be glad that Cullen didn’t roast me alive for randomly taking a bear in at all. I doubt he would be as understanding last time.”

Dorian glances over to him with a curious expression. “You mean, back at Haven?”

“Yeah,” Javas gives a nod as he replies, glancing down at his half-eaten sandwich. “To be fair, I didn’t know at all how to do much of anything. I wasn’t really taught much back home.”

That part, Dorian was a little lost. “You weren’t…?” What did he mean by that? Considering what he understood of the Trevelyans, they seemed like a perfectly pious noble family. Surely they had enough means of educating all their children—and it didn’t make sense _why_ they wouldn’t at all. Not to mention that Javas had always been particularly knowledgeable about many things himself, including the arcane despite not being a mage.

Javas seems to look a little awkward himself, then. That same awkwardness that Dorian saw back when they were still more or less flirting around and doing little else. It had been a while since he had seen it. At any other time he would be relishing that look, but right now… “If you don’t want to talk about it…”

“I—no, it’s not that.” Javas quickly interjects, shaking his head. “I suppose it’s just—just strange. I’ve never really considered myself a Trevelyan, and now with everything that’s happened…”

Wait. “You don’t consider yourself Trevelyan?” An odd statement, considering how amiable his relations are with his family—Javas does his best to send letters to them on a monthly basis when he can manage it.

“It’s… complicated.” A pause, and then Javas shakes his head once more. “Well, not really. It’s all just me making this weird.” He sighs then, and it sounds a lot wearier than Dorian expects it to be. “I’m adopted.”

“Adopted?” Alright, so repeating that probably wasn’t the best thing to do, but Dorian is caught a little off guard by that—it is a rather sudden thing to say. “So you’re not—?”

“Technically, I am.” Javas replies before Dorian can finish his question, obviously having guessed what said question was. “My mother came from there. But I am quite far down the family tree. Far enough that the name shouldn’t even really apply at all.”

Ah. That made sense. Dorian nods, and then nudges at where Javas is holding his sandwich. Javas takes the cue and slowly starts to eat his sandwich again, but this time he’s clearly a lot more occupied than before, lost in something Dorian can’t quite understand, given his own strained relations with his family. Or maybe he does understand, thinking back to how Javas urged him to reconnect with his father. It is still a bit hard to admit to himself, even after everything.

There is a good part of Dorian telling him to back off, to stop prying further when it’s clear that the topic is not something Javas does well with. But he recalls what Varric said, remembers Ameridan and the words that keep haunting his thoughts, the memories of the temple, of the look that had been on Javas’s face when he spoke to Ameridan.

_ (I wasn’t Inquisitor by choice. Whatever my life was before…) _

“How did you get the scar on your face?”

Javas jerks a little, and the surprise shows on his face—he clearly had not been expecting the question. “On my face?”

Dorian nods and reaches out with his free hand to lightly trace the scar that marked the right half of Javas’s face. A scar wasn’t anything special, he knew, but he still wanted to know the story behind it, the trail that ran from his forehead to his jaw. It looked quite old, parts of it already faded from newly grown skin.

Javas leans a little into the touch, eyes fluttering slightly. There’s a quiet moment then before he speaks. “I was nine. There was a raid in the village where I lived. The bandits weren’t very kind.”

 _Weren’t very kind_ in Javas-speak meaning that they probably nearly killed everyone. Dorian can’t imagine what that must have been like, to be in a situation like that at so young at age. He would not have fared well if he was there. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he says, voice as soft as he could manage.

“It was a long time ago,” Javas gives out a small sigh and turns his head, pressing more of his face against Dorian’s hand, as if trying to hide it. “And the Trevelyans have always been kind to me. One of the reasons why I went to the Conclave in their name was because I wanted to do something for them back in return.”

“And that’s where it all began.” A part of him couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy. All Javas wanted to do was to repay their kindness—but instead he got pulled into all of this. Obviously, he couldn’t quite regret that, since it led to them meeting, but still…

Javas doesn’t say anything for a moment and simply continues to lean against Dorian, head resting on his shoulder. Like this right now Dorian thinks once more how vulnerable Javas Trevelyan is, the man with his heart on his sleeve and a compassion that’s nearly unmatched by anyone else. He thinks of Redcliffe and the future that now never was, and the way Cullen had carried Javas into camp, frozen and trembling but still alive—a sheer miracle after the destruction of Haven.

He thinks again of Ameridan, and the words Javas had spoken there and then.

“My eyes weren’t always green, you know.”

Dorian blinks out from his thoughts, a little taken aback by the words. He glances down at Javas, confused. “What?”

Javas pulls himself away from Dorian and looks at him with his pale green eyes. “My eyes. They used to be brown.”

“Used to?” Dorian echoes, then frowns for a moment before it clicks and his eyebrows shoot up. “The mark…?”

“I don’t know if it’s the mark or something related to it,” he replies, than looks down to his left hand, the twisting of skin that created the scar on his hand. In the bright afternoon sun, the green glow it would emit is nearly invisible. “All I know is that it gave me a real shock when I looked into the mirror. I thought I had been possessed, or something.”

Dorian thinks of Cassandra and tuts. “I know somebody who wouldn’t have been pleased.”

Javas must be thinking the same as well, because he lets out a quiet chuckle. “Yes, I suppose she’d have known if I was.”

Dorian smiles and finishes up the last of his sandwich, and Javas does the same as well. Once he’s done though Javas surprises Dorian once more by leaning in close to him and curling up, tucking his head under Dorian’s chin. It’s a position they’ve assumed many times by now, and Dorian instinctively wraps an arm around Javas’s waist, cuddling close back in return.

“The great Inquisitor, a cuddler,” he murmurs, amused. “Who would have thought.”

He can feel Javas smile against his skin. “Just a little longer. This is a moment of happiness.”

_(Take moments of happiness where you find them. The world will take the rest.)_

Dorian gives his most dramatic sigh. “Very well, if I must. Can’t have the Inquisitor going around the place sulking because his cuddle meter isn’t filled.”

This time Javas does laugh, and Dorian feels at ease. Whoever Javas had been before, perhaps it doesn’t fully matter. What matters is the Javas Trevelyan that’s with him now, and the happiness they can have with each other. For the world may need Inquisitor Trevelyan, but for Dorian, all he’ll ever need is the man behind that title—the kind-hearted, nearly all-too forgiving, compassionate man known as Javas Trevelyan.


End file.
